


A Weekend in the Country

by Winter_of_our_Discontent



Category: Cabin Pressure, Merlin (TV), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It may interest you to know, John, that while Sherlock is of course my younger brother, he is not my only brother.”</p>
<p>“Oh god,” John said, pulling himself upright, “there are <i>more</i> of you?”</p>
<p>Wherein John finally meets Sherlock’s brothers (all of them) and his mother, imagines the Christmas dinners, and learns a great deal more about his flatmate and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft knew if he so much as hinted to Sherlock that it might be appropriate for his partner to meet their family, Sherlock would display levels of truculence that would make his tantrums of recent memory resemble Mahatma Gandhi having a particularly good day. However, if he waited any longer to facilitate the august occasion of the doctor’s introduction to the Holmes clan, he would have Mummy to answer to. And Mycroft had no interest in having that particular conversation with a woman he had not once in forty-odd years won an argument against.

So since anything involving Sherlock _directly_ would inevitably take the path of most resistance, he would take another route entirely.

***

“So…" John said, putting his hands behind his head and generally making himself comfortable on the plush leather seats of the black town car, “what’s it today, then? Only I’ve just got an hour for lunch and I would prefer to actually eat something at some point. So maybe instead of your club or an abandoned building or just going around in ruddy circles we could maybe stop at a Pret? Of course, if this is quick you could just drop me off at Lemongrass, I quite fancy a pad thai.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. John felt a wave of dread, the sensation settling uneasily on his empty stomach. “I won’t be back to finish my shift, will I.” He knew, at least, that Mycroft would have arranged for Sarah to be notified, though he’d probably already used up his quota of kidnapping days for the month.

“It may interest you to know, John, that while Sherlock is of course my younger brother, he is not my only brother.”

“Oh god,” John said, pulling himself upright, “there are _more_ of you? I mean,” he added awkwardly, “Sherlock hadn’t mentioned…”

Mycroft shook his head in a disapproving gesture, looking rather like John’s mental image of an Etonian schoolmaster. “If Sherlock had his way he would have the world believe he sprung forth full-formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus. Despite this, the fact remains that he is one of several children, born in the traditional fashion, and it’s well past time you were introduced to our family.”

John slumped back against the seat. “He doesn’t know about this, does he?”

“By the time he realises where you’re going and why, he’ll have no choice but to follow.” Mycroft made a show of looking at his watch. “Which should put him just in time to join us for Mummy’s birthday dinner. She’ll be quite pleased, he hasn’t come back for it in years.”

Forestalling any further commentary from John, Mycroft pulled a takeaway bag from one of the car’s compartments and offered it to John. “Your usual, I believe.”

John accepted the proffered bag, completely unsurprised to see it contained a chicken sandwich, a can of ginger beer, and, where it might have been lost under the napkins if he hadn’t known to look, a brownie.

They sat in semi-companionable silence, John preoccupied with trying not to get crumbs in the upholstery and Mycroft attending to some of the reams of paperwork he had brought with him. 

He flattened the sandwich box and packed it neatly in the bag with the empty can and other lunch ephemera, forcing himself to relax and look out the window rather than at Mycroft. One hand brushed against the mobile in his pocket; he still had time to call Sherlock, who otherwise wouldn’t be expecting him for another few hours.

“You _could_ , of course, call Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “But then you’d never get to meet our family _or_ see where we grew up.”

John sighed and moved his hands to his lap. It was going to be a long ride.

After a few hours during which John resolutely refused to ask Mycroft any of the million and one questions he had about the Holmes family, and Mycroft resolutely refused to quit radiating smugness, his mobile buzzed. John glanced up at Mycroft, who smiled at him knowingly, before pulling it out of his pocket.

_Where are you? SH_

_Kidnapped by Mycroft. Your mum’s birthday?_

_I’m going to kill him. SH_

_They’ll never find the body. SH_

_For heaven’s sake don’t talk to any of them. SH_

_Especially Mummy. SH_

_Or Freddie. SH_

_Just lock yourself in a room until I get there. SH_

_And DON’T eat the cake. SH_

_Why, won’t they like me?_ John texted back, more amused than alarmed by Sherlock’s apparent panic attack. The whole affair was beginning to remind him of first meetings with a girlfriend’s parents. Which was ridiculous, of course.

_That is not what I’m worried about. SH_

_You are eminently likable. SH_

John smiled, a small soft smile at Sherlock’s praise, before texting back _I’ll see you soon._ He looked up to see Mycroft _not_ watching him in such an ostentatious manner that he knew that not only was he being watched, but that Mycroft wanted him to know it. Suddenly self conscious, he put the mobile back in his pocket.

Mycroft smiled and said nothing.

***

John was far too embarrassed to ever admit it, but his first thought upon seeing what was less ‘Sherlock’s childhood home’ and more ‘the Holmes ancestral manor house’ was to wonder if the role of the Dowager Holmes would be played by Maggie Smith. No wonder he had a mind palace, he was hardly going to have a mind council flat after growing up here.

It wasn’t _quite_ that impressive, but to someone who’d grown up on a street of nearly identical, perfectly serviceable brick postwar housing, it was… well, big. And old. John was suddenly glad he was wearing a tie.

He was so busy being gobsmacked, he almost missed the driver talking to Mycroft. 

The driver, who had the sort of nonexistent neck that strongly implied he had duties in addition to driving, was depositing luggage from the boot onto the kerb. “I’ll bring the car around at seven sharp on Monday, Mr. Holmes.”

“That will do, Jeremy,” Mycroft said.

John spun away from the house to face them. _“Monday?”_ That was three days away. It was then he noticed that one of the things pulled from the car was his old rucksack. 

“You didn’t think I’d have gone to all this trouble for one dinner, did you, John? We do all of us get together so rarely we usually make a weekend of it.” He took John’s glare in his stride, adding, “I took the liberty of having a few of your things packed.”

Now John had to combine his growing uneasiness about meeting Sherlock’s apparently exceedingly posh family with the knowledge that one of Mycroft’s assistants had rifled through his pants.

It was going to be a long weekend. Assuming, of course, that Sherlock didn’t arrive and immediately manage to kidnap him back to London. 

But if Sherlock did that, he’d have missed his one chance to learn more about his flatmate. John couldn’t read someone’s history in the way he held his fork or combed his hair the way Sherlock could, and Sherlock had never voluntarily shared anything about his past. He doubted he’d even have known about Mycroft if Mycroft hadn’t made such a point of making himself known to John.

John squared his shoulders and forced a smile. “Well, then. Let’s go pay our respects to your mother.”

***

A short while later saw John’s luggage sitting in a guest room, Mycroft vanished off to parts unknown to do things unknown, and John deciding he might as well look around and enjoy the calm before the inevitable Sherlock-shaped storm.

The first room he entered downstairs had an unexpected treasure: a family photograph with a very young Sherlock and four other boys in an old-fashioned silver frame. Sherlock, of course, looked like he’d rather be anywhere than in the picture, while Mycroft bore himself with the portentious dignity of a young Winston Churchill. The other three to the right were all younger… god, four brothers, and not a word to him about three of them. John was hesitant to hazard any guesses about what a family that could create Sherlock and Mycroft was additionally capable of. He’d just have to wait and meet them.

As he stared at the photo, trying to glean more about the brothers Holmes and noting with amusement how knobbly Sherlock’s knees had been, he heard someone enter the room behind him.

“Oh! Sorry, I wasn’t expecting…” the man exclaimed, then straightened up a bit. “And you are?”

“John Watson. I’m a friend of Sherlock’s.” John extended his hand. “Mycroft invited me to dinner.” Which was close enough to the truth.

The man shook it eagerly, face brightening in recognition. “Oh, yes, Sherlock’s John. Mycroft’s mentioned you. I’m Martin. Mycroft’s brother. Well, Sherlock’s too, obviously.”

“I’m guessing that’s you in the middle,” John said, gesturing at the photograph. Seeing as the man looked uncannily like a shorter, ginger Sherlock, and as only one of the boys in the picture didn’t have dark hair, it was an easy enough deduction to make.

“Yes, that’s… Mycroft, obviously, then Sherlock, then me, I’m holding Merlin, he’s the youngest, and next to us is Freddie.” Martin laughed, high and a bit nervous. “The rest of them have Father’s height and Mummy’s hair, but I got it the other way ‘round. I’m sort of the black sheep of the family. Well… short, gingerish sheep?” He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair self-consciously.

“So what is it you do, then?” John asked as he tried to picture what would constitute a black sheep in this family.

“I’m a pilot. An airline pilot,” he said, shaping his mouth around the words with obvious relish. “A captain, in fact.” 

Only in the Holmes family would that be considered underperforming. “I’d say that’s pretty impressive,” John said sincerely. Martin puffed up slightly with pride, looking a bit like a small ginger pigeon. “And you obviously enjoy your work.” 

“That, at least, _is_ a Holmes… thing… finding something you love and pursuing it at all costs. But then, you’d know that, wouldn’t you?” He turned red. “I mean… that is to say…” 

John took pity on him and interrupted. “He’s certainly passionate about his work, yes.” 

“Yes,” Martin said, seizing the verbal lifebelt. “The work. The chemicals and bodies and…“ He waved his hands around in a gesture clearly meant to encompass all that Sherlock got up to. 

“Must have been interesting growing up with him.” 

“I still remember, when I was seven and my hamster died, he dug it up to autopsy it. I cried for _days._ Mummy made Sherlock apologise to me and promise never to autopsy anything without asking permission first.”

John grinned. It was very… _Sherlock._

Martin stared at him for a minute, searching his face. “Maybe you can sit near me at dinner, so I have someone to talk to if Sherlock and Mycroft start going off on each other? And Freddie and Merlin… they’re not nearly so bad but they do tend to go on a bit. You can imagine the Christmas dinners.” Martin shuddered, then brightened. “Though maybe it’ll be better now you’ll be joining us.”

“I’m just here for a dinner, I doubt I’m going to be invited back for holidays,” John demurred politely. 

“Well of course you…” Martin’s ears turned bright red again. “Forget I said anything. I should go. Flight manuals. Won’t read themselves. I’ll see you at dinner.” He all but fled the room.

Sherlock told John, frequently, that he was a terrible liar. But compared with Martin, he could account himself a regular Mata Hari. He just wasn’t sure what exactly it was Martin was trying so poorly to hide.

Before he could ponder the question much further, or figure out where more childhood photographs were likely to be located, he heard a familiar voice shouting his name.


	2. Chapter 2

“John!” Sherlock yelled, bounding into the room. “There you are. Where are your things? We’re going. Now.” Without waiting for John to respond, he turned and headed back out. John followed him back into his guest room, where Sherlock began throwing John’s things into his luggage.

“How’d you know where my things were?” John asked.

“It’s the guest room next to mine; of course he put you in here,” Sherlock said, clearly impatient to be gone. “You haven’t talked to anyone yet, have you?”

“I ran into Martin, he seems like a good sort.”

“Martin…” Sherlock stopped. John could see the gears turning. “I suppose Martin is alright.”

“High praise indeed, from you.”

“Never mind them, we have to go before…”

“Hello, Sherlock. So kind of you to join us for Mummy’s birthday,” Mycroft said, appearing at the doorway. “She does so love to see the whole family here.” 

“Too late,” Sherlock said, sotto voce.

“I’ve already taken the liberty of informing Mummy and Cook that you’ll both be staying for dinner. You needn’t worry about the gift you’ve doubtless not brought, I’m sure she’d agree that bringing your Doctor Watson to finally meet her is present enough.”

Sherlock looked as though he’d spent days distilling the essence of lemon into concentrated form, then accidentally swigged it.

“I’ll leave you two to freshen up before dinner,” Mycroft said, making a show of looking at his watch. In a gentler tone he added, “And Sherlock? Do _try_ to enjoy yourself. We _are_ happy to have you home,” before leaving. 

Sherlock looked, if possible, even more pained. 

He began pacing up and down the room in a movement John would have associated with one of his bored phases if it hadn’t been for the look on his face. “Sherlock. Sherlock!” He reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, pulling him around to face him. “Look at me.” 

The surprise of the movement, if nothing else, seemed to be working on Sherlock, who stood still. “Stupid bloody _fat_ manipulative…”

John gentled the grip on Sherlock’s arm but didn’t let go. “...older sibling, yeah, I know. I’m glad you didn’t bring my gun.” 

“You’re always having trouble figuring out what to get me for Christmas.”

“Never learned the right way to wrap corpses,” John said, and then they were both laughing and it was alright again.

“It’ll be fine, yeah?” and without thinking about it, he began rubbing tiny circles on Sherlock’s arm with his thumb. It was a gesture he usually reserved for his girlfriends, but he assumed it was generally reassuring. “We’ll go down to dinner, and I can meet your family. You said they’d like me.”

Sherlock opened his mouth then closed it again, looking frustrated. 

“And I’ve already survived Mycroft and I quite like Martin,” John added. “I’d like to meet your family.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked. “Whatever for?”

“Because…” _Because I know so little about you. Because I want to know more. Because I’d love to see what sort of family could produce you and Mycroft. Because you were an adorable kid and I want to ask your mother if she has pictures of you dressed as a pirate. Because even if you won’t admit it, this matters to you, you wouldn’t be so upset otherwise._ “...they’re yours. I’m curious. You knew about Harry after three minutes with me, but you never talk about your family.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

“Why do I doubt that very much?” John said, smiling. He realised his hand was still on Sherlock’s bicep. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, he let go of Sherlock and shoved his hand into his pocket. “Dinner, yeah?”

“If we must.”

John turned to leave the room before suddenly remembering Mycroft’s suggestion of freshening up. How fancy was he expected to be? He turned to ask Sherlock, but before he’d even formed the question in his mind Sherlock had replied. 

“Your suit is acceptable, though I’d suggest changing to the blue shirt with the grey tie.”

John looked at him, but once again, actually asking the question was superfluous.

Sherlock smiled. “Brings out your eyes.”

***

The table was set for seven and occupied by two when they arrived: Martin sat on one side and the seat across from him was occupied by a younger man wearing heavy framed glasses and a cardigan far more fashionable than any of John’s. The latter was busily doing something on his mobile and didn’t look up as they entered, but Martin brightened and waved John and Sherlock over to the empty chairs on his side.

“John! Sherlock! Sit here!”

“Martin. Frederick.”

“Sherlock,” the man acknowledged. 

John held out a hand, “John Watson.”

“Frederick Holmes, Freddie, generally. Pleased,” the man said, still holding his device in the other as he shook John’s hand from across the table. His eyes were dark but contained the same sort of brilliance, along with the accompanying sense of evaluation that John associated with a Holmes. Frederick immediately went back to whatever he’d been doing, seemingly oblivious, but John didn’t get the feeling he missed much.

A crashing noise came from somewhere outside the room. John looked over, alarmed. No one else at the table seemed perturbed. “That would be Merlin arriving,” Sherlock explained, putting a hand over his to stop John from rising. “Don’t worry, he’s always like that.” Other, quieter noises followed.

“So…” John said, feeling compelled to say something rather than continue to try and ignore the sounds. “I know Martin’s a pilot… what do you do, Frederick? Something with computers?” he guessed.

“Yes, something like that. Primarily research and development, with a bit of tech support thrown in.”

Sherlock snorted. John elbowed him in the side. Martin snorted. Sherlock gave him a Look. Martin made a face back at him.

“That sounds interesting,” John said to Frederick, pretending he wasn’t noticing any of it.

“It has its moments.”

“Especially now you’ve been promoted,” Sherlock chimed in. “Tell me, have you met _all_ your new co-workers yet?”

“Hullo!” a man called out as he bounded into the room. John was unsurprised to see that Merlin-- because really, this must be Merlin-- was tall, thin, dark haired, and possessed of cheekbones capable of slicing bread. Merlin immediately made his way to Martin, engulfing him in a hug. John watched, wide-eyed, as he did the same to Sherlock, who returned it with the sort of affection John hadn’t seen directed at anyone other than Mrs. Hudson. 

The man then turned to John, who eyed him a bit warily. “Hullo, I’m Merlin.” He thrust a hand towards him. 

John returned the smile and the handshake. “John Watson.”

“Lovely to meet you, Mycroft’s told me loads.” Merlin moved to the other side of the table, flopping down into the empty seat next to Frederick. He wrapped one arm around his older brother in a cross between a hug and a wrestling hold, using his other hand to muss Frederick’s hair.

Frederick scowled and set his mobile down to try and fix it. “Still living in the past, I see.”

Merlin grinned and settled back into his seat. “Still doing all yours through screens?”

“Only until I improve existing neural interfaces.”

John looked over to Sherlock, silently asking if they were always like this. Sherlock gave him a look back that indicated that yes, yes, they were.

“So then you can achieve your life’s ambition and become a brain in a jar. Maybe they’ll let you keep the cardigan. Sherlock can help you pick the jar.”

“How was Paris?” Martin asked in a not remotely subtle attempt to divert the conversation.

“Oh, lovely, as always,” Merlin said. “I think I’ve finally sorted out that tomb sculpture at St. Denis that’s been giving me trouble.” 

“Can’t you analyze the remains?” Sherlock asked, sounding moderately interested now the topic had veered into forensics.

Merlin shook his head. “They were separated from the tomb during the French Revolution, it’s just the top slab left now.”

“Pity,” Sherlock said, and they began discussing a recent paper on isotope analysis of human remains found in plague pits.

“Merlin’s a scholar,” Martin whispered to John. “Specializes in the Middle Ages, writes books no one reads and everything.”

John was starting to see how being an airline captain would seem like underachieving. Though what that made him… didn’t bear thinking about, honestly. He was proud of what he’d accomplished, and if he _was_ going to be intimidated by a Holmes, he’d have started with Sherlock ages ago.

Someone cleared their throat, and all eyes moved to the doorway.

Everyone at the table stood as Mycroft escorted Mrs. Holmes into the dining room, seating her at one end of the table before taking the seat at the other end. The help he had offered her was clearly ceremonial in nature. Barely over five feet tall, she carried herself with the gravitas and posture of Boadicea. John fought the urge to salute.

The others, following some invisible cue, sat back down, and John followed suit. 

A round of back and forth greetings interspersed with birthday felicitations followed. They allowed John a brief respite before her piercing eyes fell on him.

“And you must be Sherlock’s Doctor Watson. How kind of you to join us for my birthday weekend. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk before dinner, but I’m sure we’ll have time tomorrow.”

“It was very kind of you to invite me, Mrs. Holmes,” John said, sneaking a glance at Sherlock as if daring him to contradict such a blatant lie. “You have a beautiful home.”

“Please, call me Violet. I hope I may call you John. Sherlock will have to give you a tour after dinner, won’t you Sherlock?” It wasn’t actually a question. It wasn’t an order either, he’d had enough of those in the army to know, it was just the words of someone who had no doubt that what she wanted to happen was damn well what was going to happen.

“Yes, Mummy,” Sherlock said. It was just as well John was already smiling, because hearing someone able to get Sherlock to do what they wanted so effortlessly would have likely had him grinning anyway.

“And Frederick, you know the rules, no electronic devices at the table.”

“Yes, Mummy,” he said, finally putting away his mobile.

What followed was one of the oddest dinners John had ever attended. It was superficially like other family gatherings he’d been to, with people moving in and out of the up to three conversations going on around the table at any given moment. John had a feeling, though, that the obvious verbal conversations represented only the most superficial level of what was actually happening at the table, as though if he could just turn to the right radio frequencies he’d be able to hear the other conversations secretly taking place concurrently.

Even the obvious discussions veered between friendly conversation and fierce verbal sparring, especially between the duos of Freddie and Merlin and Sherlock and Mycroft. Usually when it seemed about to take a turn for the truly heated, Martin or Mrs. Holmes would suddenly intervene and veer the conversation in another direction.

John stepped in a few times between Sherlock and Mycroft as well. He couldn’t help it; even as he enjoyed descriptions of some of Martin’s more interesting trips, debated the relative merits and drawbacks of the local football club with Freddie, or chatted with Merlin about the Alhambra, part of him was always paying attention to what Sherlock was saying. Even if he couldn’t follow it, which was most of the time, he was still alert to inflections and body language and the million cues Sherlock gave off that told John, if not what they were actually talking about, what Sherlock _felt_ about what they were talking about.

For the most part, Sherlock was enjoying himself. And when he wasn’t, John was there with a word or a look or a ridiculous non sequitur that everyone at this table probably saw through but it didn’t particularly matter as long as Sherlock was enjoying himself.

If he hadn’t been too preoccupied to think about it, he’d have noticed he was enjoying himself as well.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up to a Sherlock-free room, though from the state of the duvet it looked like Sherlock had remained some time after John had fallen asleep. 

Hopefully Sherlock had actually slept at some point. They’d only recently finished their last case, which meant he’d be working at a sleep deficit, and today was likely to be challenging enough without worrying about Sherlock falling over in the middle of it. 

John carried his toiletries and a change of clothes down the hall to the large bathroom near the end of it. However old the house was, the plumbing was clearly newer, as the hot water was plentiful and the water pressure firm. He sincerely hoped that whatever was on the schedule for today would be a bit less formal, as he didn’t much fancy an entire weekend in his suit. The fact that Mycroft’s assistants had packed jeans and jumpers was certainly a promising sign, John decided as he changed into jeans, a checked button down, and a burgundy cardigan. 

On the way to the stairs he passed the room next to his, Sherlock’s old bedroom. John paused, wondering if he should… Sherlock was probably gone by now, the room empty. And it wasn’t as though the tall git ever respected _his_ privacy.

John rapped on the door once. No answer. He said Sherlock’s name, still no answer.

Satisfied the room was empty, John carefully opened the door.

The bed was pristine, as was the rest of the room. It actually looked even more like a hotel room than John’s pseudo-Victorian B&B of a guest room, which had at least been personalized a bit with extraneous antique furniture and some indifferent oil paintings. Here, the walls were bare. John’s bed was bigger, too, no wonder Sherlock would rather stay in the guest room than this one.

He wondered if Sherlock had simply moved all of his things to Baker Street or if there was more to the story.

He wondered if Sherlock would ever trust him enough to tell him if there was.

Downstairs, John found Freddie, Martin, and Merlin tucking into breakfast, Martin and Merlin as though they hadn’t, contrary to John’s actual memories of last night, ever eaten before nor did they apparently expect to do so again.

The table and several sideboards were laden with food in the fullest Full English John had ever seen. He filled a plate rather optimistically with bits of a half dozen things, then topped the arrangement rather whimsically with an orange from an actual fruit pyramid. 

“Good morning.”

“Morning.”

“Mmfp.”

“Mwnng.”

John made a valiant effort, but in the end the breakfast defeated him, leaving him with a half empty plate, a half eaten orange, and a strong urge to nap for the rest of the weekend. “Where’s…” he stopped himself from saying _Sherlock,_ even if he meant Sherlock, because asking about him specifically seemed a bit needy, and changed it to “everyone else this morning?”

Unsurprisingly, it was Freddie who answered. “Mycroft’s off doing all the things he can’t possibly leave alone even though he’s supposed to be taking the weekend off, and Sherlock and Mother are talking.”

“Ah,” John said.

“They’ll likely be a bit longer… Fancy a bit of shooting? Not live targets, we’ve got a sort of a range set up in back.”

“I didn’t figure you for the sort,” John said, surprised but amenable. Target practice was certainly preferable to hanging about here, waiting for Sherlock to finish his talk and worrying about how it was going.

Freddie shrugged. “Sometimes a trigger needs pulling. Best to know how.”

John thought of Afghanistan, and of a night, a bit less distant, at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College. “Yeah, I suppose so.” He turned to the other Holmes. “Either of you interested?”

Merlin shook his head, “My weapon of choice is scathing journal reviews with cutting dissections of their methodological errors.”

Freddie added, “A gun in his hand would be more dangerous to him than anyone else.”

“But you should see me with a red pen,” Merlin said, grinning. “Absolutely lethal at twenty paces.” He mimed throwing a pen like a tiny javelin.

“I’m only good at hitting the ground. With my plane. Which isn’t to say I crash!” Martin hastily added. “Just… landing. Which I’m quite good at, actually. Well, I mean, of course I am. I mean, pilot, after all.”

***

John tried not to react suspiciously when Freddie handed him a Sig Sauer. Not _his_ Sig, thankfully, that was (hopefully) still safely hidden back in his flat, in a location he liked to pretend very hard that Sherlock didn’t know about.

“Good gun,” he said, turning it over in his hands. The gun was excellently maintained and in perfect working order, unsurprisingly. The weight felt comfortable in his hands.

“Thought you might enjoy something you were familiar with,” Freddie said, the slightest hint of a smile on his face.

Bloody Holmeses. He might have just meant the Sig was standard issue army, in which case it meant he knew something about John’s history, he might have meant that Sherlock, or more likely Mycroft, had mentioned that John still had one, or he might have meant that he could somehow look at John and _know,_ with full Holmesian confidence and no prior knowledge, that of course John had an illicitly acquired firearm of this particular make and model.

He decided not to overthink it. Sometimes a gun was just a gun, and sometimes a nice gesture was just a nice gesture. Unless it was Mycroft’s.  
 “What’ll you be shooting with?” John asked, politely curious, as they made their way away from the house. “Another Sig?”

Freddie shook his head. “Walther PPK.”

“That’s an… interesting choice.”

“Surprisingly popular in certain circles,” Freddie said, smiling again. The smile looked a little like one of Sherlock’s, though it had a restraint that none of his possessed.

There was something meditative about target practice. Far removed from the adrenaline and noise of a combat setting, it was instead a sort of controlled communion between yourself, your weapon, and the target you were sighting. 

There was a gun club in London that John used whenever he could find time; it was conveniently close to a Tube stop and catered to a number of veterans. He appreciated being able to practice at all, but being able to shoot outside again felt wonderful. Here the skies were greyish and chill enough for him to be grateful for his jacket, and the air smelled damp and fresh thanks to a slight breeze, free of the lingering gunpowder scent that clung to indoor ranges. It felt pleasantly challenging needing to adjust for humidity and wind when he aimed.

“You’re the expert, obviously, but I _think_ they’re dead,” Freddie said eventually. 

“Cry God for Harry, England, and St. George,” John replied, grinning. Their paper targets now boasted an impressive array of fatal wounds to the chest and head. “You’re a damn good shot.”

“You’re no slouch yourself, Captain.”

“Ta,” John said, pleased, as they made their way back to the manor house. A tiny part of him relished the opportunity to show off any of his skills a bit in front of Sherlock’s family, especially in a way that was a great deal pleasanter than performing an emergency tracheotomy at the dinner table. Though at least if he ever did have to, the Holmes clan weren’t likely to be as squeamish about it as the time he’d had to on his then-girlfriend’s uncle over Christmas. Her parents had been effusive in their thanks and praise, but Emma had barely been able to look him in the eyes afterwards, and they’d broken up by mid-January.

Sherlock would probably just critique his technique.

**Author's Note:**

> Since Skyfall, I’ve seen a number of fics featuring Q as a younger Holmes brother. That, of course, led to me thinking about some of the other characters I’ve seen added to the Holmes clan in fanfiction, and ended with me deciding to go for broke.
> 
> Love to my betas analineblue, lareinenoire, and rosamund.


End file.
